


The Death of Peter Pan

by littlelamblittlelamb



Series: Sky High AU [2]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Healer!Patroclus, Hurt/Comfort, I named a petty villain Super Cock, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Superhero!Achilles, The inexplicable guest appearance of Frank Gallagher, it just came to me, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelamblittlelamb/pseuds/littlelamblittlelamb
Summary: Months after graduating Sky High, Achilles Pelides is invincible. Super strong, fast, and able to fly, he travels the country gaining fame and acclaim (and defeating the odd bad guy along the way). With Patroclus, his lover and Healer, watching over him, he is certain no one can stop him.One day, he falls.--Inexplicably, another Sky High AU.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: Sky High AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720417
Comments: 41
Kudos: 200





	The Death of Peter Pan

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> A few people seemed to like my Sky High AU ('Achilles Heals' - an AU loosely anchored in the 2005 classic 'Sky High'). Inexplicably, I've written another story in the same universe.
> 
> If you haven't read the other part, it's fine. I've tried to provide context, but essentially -  
> \- Achilles only realised he could fly a few months before graduating  
> \- Patroclus's powers are considered pretty low level (in Sky High, there are Heroes and 'Hero Support' aka sidekicks. Patroclus is very much considered Hero Support grade).  
> \- The previous part to this is series is a sweet fic wherein Achilles realises his powers and, having injured himself in the process, asks for Patroclus's help. I'd love you to read it, but you don't have to to understand this <3
> 
> This fic is named after the 1988 Australian play based on the life and death of Michael Llewelyn Davies, who provided some of the inspiration for Peter Pan. He drowned with Rupert Buxton, his likely lover. I think by the end it makes sense why I've named it that way, but titles are not my forte.
> 
> 'Frank', Patroclus's patient, is channeling the one and only Frank Gallagher, from Shameless.
> 
> Also, after five years, I finally have an avatar, drawn for me by my longsuffering and endlessly supportive brother! Check it. He is an absolute sweetheart.

Being a Healer is less rewarding than people might think. Sure, there are always a few headliners who can charge a million dollars for a single touch and travel the world on private jets. People like that have commoners bow at their feet – a second of their time is a priceless commodity. Patroclus wasn’t like that. Patroclus, at nineteen – freshly graduated from Sky High – was no one’s hero.

Dr Machaon, the unphased attending at Heracles Memorial Hospital, knew this at a glance. “So SuperCorp’s sent us a Healer?”

“Yeah. Just for the fortnight,” Patroclus said. He wore teal scrubs to pass for a nurse, but although Patroclus was getting used to handling changing hospital every few weeks, he always hated being sized up. Being a superhero was heralded as extraordinary. Being a mediocre Healer with incredibly little actual medical knowledge earned scowls from the real nurses, and smirks from the doctors.

“You got experience – know your shit?” Dr Machaon asked. She was in her fifties, short and blonde. She wore a stern expression behind thick glasses.

“Usually one or two patients in a twelve hour shift,” Patroclus submitted. This was, of course, all in his paperwork – but he learned early on that doctors didn’t have time for that. “Skin to skin contact. Limited success with mental illness. I can do pain relief, but I have to take it on, and I can only handle so much. I do well with babies,” Patroclus said hopefully.

Babies didn’t complain. Or rather, babies didn’t complain that he was taking forever, or that it wasn’t working, or that he seemed like a fag – _no offence_. He could handle the crying.

“Ah, the NICU. Tempting.” Dr Machaon grinned, clearly onto him. “We have a guy with sepsis. A bastard, too – grabbed a nurse’s ass after she put in the IV. But he’s dying. You might be the only person in the whole city who can save him.”

Patroclus sighed. Grown men were _the worst_. “Can you sedate him?”

“We’ll do what we can to make you comfortable,” Dr Machaon said facetiously. She had a wicked smile. “I’ll get the forms and see if we can settle him.”

* * *

“Am I gonna spend my last fucking days spooning some kid?” the man – Frank – whined as he pressed his hairy chest into Patroclus’s back. He smelled a little of alcohol, and spoke with the arrogance of someone used to surviving encounters with death.

“If this works, you might live a long life yet,” Patroclus said with false optimism.

“They didn’t have a chick?”

“You don’t like my ass?” Patroclus asked.

Frank considered this. “Hmm – it’ll do in a pinch, but I’m looking for something with closer proximity to pussy. You know what they say; location, location, location.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You’re not the first to remark upon the likeness. Say, you reckon you can get me some oxy?” Frank ground into his ass, and if Patroclus wasn’t mistaken, he was sporting a semi. “I could make an exception.”

“No thanks.”

“That’s a real shame. I’ve had people turn for me, you know,” Frank proclaimed.

“Are you the church’s secret weapon – to turn gay guys straight? If only I'd met you sooner.”

“Ha ha.”

“I can’t prescribe medicine,” Patroclus admitted.

“You just lie on your back and think of England?”

“Pretty much.”

“Whores do more work than you. Ha!” Frank laughed until he broke into a fit of coughs.

“I’d say most sex workers make more than me,” Patroclus said. “So take comfort in that.”

“Good to know.”

It was a long six hours. Frank seemed appallingly interested in whether Patroclus had ever had to heal a dick (no), or if people often made passes at him (surprisingly, yes), or if he liked his work (sometimes). Or rather, if he got off on it ( _Jesus fucking Christ, Frank_ ). Eventually, Dr Machaon relieved him to the NICU, where held a soft, pink, pleasant smelling baby in silence until the end of his shift.

* * *

It was on Patroclus’s way home that it happened. Patroclus’s shift finished around dawn, and it was always worth checking the HeroTracker app to see if he could meet up with Achilles on his way home.

_Achilles Pelides – last spotted in an aerial battle with Super Cock over central Troy/Hercles Gardens._

Super Cock.

The mythology was that Super Cock was in fact a Frenchman named Pierre who bore his family crest – a rooster – on his costume. He had tried to name himself ‘Paris’ on account of being French, and then ‘Icarus’ on account of being able to fly. But people saw the rooster, and before too long, he was Super Cock.

 _I don’t even think he’s French,_ Achilles had remarked once. _Pretty sure he’s related to Hector. Maybe French Canadian?_

Patroclus couldn’t blame him for becoming a villain, with a name like that. Not that Super Cock was a true devotee of evil – no. Super Cock picked fights with other heroes seemingly for the sake of his own inflated ego, though word on the street was that he made revenue from underground betting and YouTube hits for fights.

_I’ll come by Heracles Gardens. Hit me up if you’re around._

Patroclus texted Achilles and continued on. Usually it came to nothing – timing was a trick. They both worked nights, but sometimes Achilles worked on missions that kept him away for days or even weeks, and Patroclus would only find out when he stumbled into their apartment to find a hastily scribbled note on the refrigerator. SuperCorp would return Achilles battered and bruised, and Patroclus would lie with him.

 _You ever find it funny that your boss pays me to sleep with you?_ Patroclus would tease.

_Our boss. You’re my favourite Healer, you know. Briseis hates me, and you complain that yours takes all night, but it’s better than Ritual Healers – they give me the heebie-jeebies._

_You don’t want me to heal you with the power of dance and chanting?_

Achilles had considered that at comical length, and Patroclus had laughed. _Just one particular dance,_ Achilles had said lasciviously. _Chant my name?_

Patroclus shivered at the memory – at chanting Achilles’s name in a hotel room. Where had they been? California? Las Vegas? It had been somewhere dry and warm – Achilles had donned Versace swim trunks and Gucci sunglasses simply because he could afford them, and the hotel had had a pool… It was impossible to keep track. SuperCorp was building Achilles’s notoriety, which meant touring like a rockstar, and Patroclus followed him from condo to apartment to hotel room like a groupie. Not that Patroclus minded. It was more than he imagined he could ever have. But sometimes he imagined Achilles packing up and leaving him behind like those Gucci sunglasses, which Patroclus hadn’t seen since their stop in Austin.

Up ahead, Patroclus spied Achilles’s team van, parked outside the gates of Heracles Gardens. Half ambulance, half getaway vehicle, Patroclus spotted Odysseus, Achilles's long-suffering manager, and almost waved. Instead, Patroclus turned into Heracles Gardens and gazed up to see a small, devoted crowd watching Achilles and Super Cock fight it out.

Patroclus felt a stab of unease. He had hoped ‘aerial fight’ had been an exaggeration – Achilles could fly, sure, but he had learned of this gift all of six months ago. The night Achilles realized he could fly, he had wound up banging on Patroclus’s window, begging to be healed from having fallen from a few stories up. Even now, Achilles usually used flying as a means of getting around, before he whipped out super strength or super speed. In the air… Patroclus frowned into his puffer jacket. In the air, Achilles looked worn out.

Achilles had tried to explain how it felt to fly –

 _Sometimes,_ he had said, healing a broken wrist against Patroclus’s waist, _you feel light as a feather – like you could float away; fly into the sun. Sometimes you feel heavy. Like when you’re lifting weights, and the final set feels impossible._

Achilles and Super Cock were easily fifty feet in the air, and Achilles looked heavy.

When he thought about it later, Patroclus wondered if there wasn’t something he could have done. Had he cried out, he would only have been a distraction – not that Achilles would have heard him. Maybe in the past he should have scolded Achilles over his lesser flying injuries – the ribs, the arms, the wrists, rather than laughing with him and holding him through the night. Maybe that would have stopped Achilles from tumbling fifty feet down onto a bronze bust of Heracles.

A lot of things happened at once. Achilles, the best of a generation, lay in shock on the grass, barely alive. Super Cock pushed back onlookers – a mercy, giving Achilles space to die. Patroclus fumbled for his SuperCorp lanyard and found himself pushing through the crowd to kneel over Achilles.

“We… we have to stop meeting like this,” Achilles rasped fondly, his face pinched in agony.

Patroclus placed a frantic hand on Achilles’s abdomen, and concentrated with everything he had.

“Don’t… Just be here, Patroclus.” Achilles weakly reached for his hand. “Please.”

There was a tragic beauty about it – someone so golden and young comforting their lover as they passed. Patroclus almost felt bad for spoiling it. Amidst the gawkers and journalists, Odysseus stood in horror beside Achilles’s medical team just a few feet away.

“I need a knife,” Patroclus announced, squeezing Achilles’s hand before dropping it back beside his body. “Now.”

HeroTracker buzzed:

_Achilles falls in Heracles Gardens._

* * *

Professor Chiron, the ‘Ethics in Heroing’ teacher at Sky High, was an anomaly. Six-foot-eight and super-strong, he had retired from the superhero schtick in his thirties, and gone into a life of academia. At eighteen, Patroclus couldn’t help but think he looked a little like The Rock in spectacles – this muscle-bound giant who sipped free-trade coffee and lectured passionately in a knit sweater. Chiron was also an anomaly because he seemed to genuinely not dislike the Hero Support kids. It was not long before graduation – and just weeks before Achilles fell out of the sky – that Chiron took Patroclus aside after class.

“Tactile Healing is not a comprehensive category,” Chiron said in that slow, purposeful way he had of talking.

“I… okay.” Class had finished, and the other students filed out to lunch. Patroclus watched the door as teenagers do – keen to escape even his favourite teacher, though he had nowhere else to be.

“We don’t tend to put Healers through the ringer to assess their powers – there’s all sorts of privacy legislation in place regarding your powers and rights to healing… but I thought it was something for you to consider. Briseis was categorized as a Tactile Healer until two years ago, when she managed to achieve contactless healing.”

Briseis Antony – one of Patroclus’s better friends at Sky High – somehow balanced altruism and ruthless ambition. She charged for her healing what she thought people could pay ( _Wouldn’t touch Pelides for less than $1000. But you call me if you need me)_ and donated the money to good causes. She could heal people instantly by hovering her hands an inch from their skin, and the previous year, she got the hang of animals. She was bright and beautiful and as good as a person could be, Patroclus thought.

“I’m not Briseis.”

“No,” Chiron said kindly. “You’re you. I thought I would be remiss not to have this conversation with you.”

“I mean, thanks –”

“I’m not done.” Chiron took a breath and glanced up at the clock. “Have you heard of Blood Healers?”

“There’s something about them in the textbook,” Patroclus managed. There was a peculiar gravity about the situation, as if this was a turning point. As if, Patroclus later reflected, this was his, ‘Yer a wizard, Harry’ moment.

“Blood Healers are often able to heal injuries or illnesses by means of their own blood. That might be smearing it on an affected area, injecting it into people, even letting hurt persons drink it. Historically, Blood Healers have been unlucky. There’s a pervasive theory that immortality might be granted by eating the heart of a Blood Healer. During the height of the AIDS panic, Blood Healing became even more taboo. But I thought you should learn about it just the same, Patroclus.”

Patroclus stared at Chiron, his eyebrows furrowed. “Okay?”

“Because,” Chiron continued patiently, “another way Blood Healers present is through run of the mill Tactile Healing – the skin is a barrier, but just like sound carries through walls, weaker healing might occur through touch. It’s often very gradual.”

Patroclus felt his heart sink. “Are you… am I…?”

Chiron raised his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “I’d have no way of knowing, and I’m happy to keep your classification as ‘Tactile Healer’.”

“Should we… I mean, can you test me or something?”

Chiron grimaced. “Part of the reason for tight legislation around Healers is that people only need them when things are dire – life and death and whatnot. Presenting as a Tactile Healer carries risks – of abduction, trafficking – but Blood Healers also face the risk of having their jugular cut in the heat of the moment.”

“Right,” Patroclus murmured. “That’s… that’s bad.”

Chiron laughed humourlessly. “It’s horrific. And I lobby politicians, and the statutes in place… they do protect these types of Healers, but when it’s life or death or serious injury… people do crazy things, regardless of any laws. Do you understand what I’m getting at, Patroclus?”

“I think so.”

Chiron nodded. “Just… I thought you should think about it. In your own time.”

But Patroclus couldn’t test it on himself, and Briseis self-healed in an instant, and it always seemed too strange and intimate of a thing to do. Once or twice, whilst on tour with Achilles, he had cut himself shaving, or while cutting up vegetables. He nearly said something - almost asked to test it on a grazed knee or stray bruise - but Chiron was right; there was something taboo about it - worse than dancing and chanting, even. Patroclus tucked the thought away, and only occasionally turned it over in his mind.

* * *

When Patroclus woke, it was hard to believe he was in a hospital. He knew he had to be – there were IVs and machines beeping and the unmistakable smell – but the suite was dressed up like a hotel; a widescreen TV, cabinets, lamps. There was an armchair by his bed, and Achilles, half-naked and bandaged and attached to some drips of his own, sat hunched over asleep. Morning light filtered through a large window and caught the gold of Achilles’s hair. He looked like an angel – like the statues they would have erected of him, had he died in the park.

“Achilles,” Patroclus whispered. He knew it was stupid, but he needed to see Achilles awake, alive.

Achilles sprang up as if reacting to gunfire. “Pat?”

“Mmm,” Patroclus groaned, wincing. He felt weak and tired and dizzy. “You okay?”

Achilles laughed – a shockingly harsh sound. “Am _I_ okay?”

Patroclus blinked back at him, then looked down. The bed had rails, and though it was more comfortable than any hospital bed he had ever lay on, the white sheets and bluish hospital gown really gave the place away. “This suite’s gotta be more expensive than a stay at the Hilton.”

“You got amnesia?” Achilles asked, still with an edge to his voice.

“I remember.” Patroclus looked at his bandaged up wrist and sighed. “People are totally gonna get the wrong idea.”

“They’re gonna think you tried to kill yourself,” Achilles said tonelessly. “Which is about right, given you cut your own fucking wrist and almost died.”

Patroclus remembered the strange, still calmness that had rolled over him. He had no proof, little evidence, but he had been certain he could save Achilles. It had felt like faith. “You were dying.”

“I’m a fucking idiot and a shitty flyer, and if I had’ve died, I would’ve deserved it.” Achilles sat himself back down on the chair, his body tense, knee jogging up and down, ready to react. “When you came over, I thought I was gonna die in your arms, and I’d come to terms with that.”

“I hadn’t.” Patroclus closed his eyes, already tired again. “Achilles, we’re both still here. It’s a win.”

“Since when have you been a Blood Healer?” Achilles rumbled.

“Teacher mentioned I might be. Puts a target on your back, so he didn’t want to register me. Said I could check it out on my own time.”

“And you thought that was the best time to try it out?”

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus mumbled, before he fell asleep once more.

* * *

When next he woke, there was jelly on a tray in front of him, and Achilles sat on the same couch. He looked a little sheepish.

“I was a dick, earlier. You remember?” he asked quietly.

Patroclus stared at the wiggling green morsels on his plate. Time was moving strangely, and his head hurt, and Achilles didn’t look right. Achilles was calm and sure and animated and optimistic – but the man before him looked agitated and lost and drained and helpless. “’s alright.”

“I don’t ever want you to do that again,” Achilles said.

“Probably a stupid way of doing it. Should’ve done it as a blood transfusion properly, or maybe had you drink it.” Patroclus made a face at the thought, before spooning a cube of jelly into his mouth, relishing the slimy, lime sweetness of it. “But I didn’t think we had time.”

“You almost died. It was dangerous.”

“I’d come to terms with it.”

“I was still conscious,” Achilles snapped. “When you did it. Had you leaning over me – my Patroclus, my Lois Lane – and I think you’ll hold me. I think you’ll comfort me. And then you get this crazy look in your eye and you carve into yourself, and I can’t do anything.” Achilles’s fingers clenched and unclenched, as if they ached to hit something. “And my fucking medical team is there, and you convince them you’re not insane, that you’re helping, that the river of blood you’re smearing over me is gonna save me –”

“It did –”

“And they let you!” Achilles burst. He closed his eyes and took a few breaths, his body trembling with anger. Achilles fought and killed men every other day, but it was oddly disorienting seeing him angry. “You’re fucked up and crazy and you cut yourself because _maybe_ it would save me. They should have fucking restrained you, had you committed.”

“You’re being an asshole,” Patroclus muttered.

Achilles shook out his hands, tried to relieve the tension. Without realizing he was doing it, he began to pace. He reminded Patroclus of lions at the zoo – the set of his shoulders, the threat of a predator revealing itself in his strange, jaunty movements. “It was you or me. The second they saw it might be working, my team decided it was you or me, and they chose me. Without hesitation. Don’t pretend they didn’t.”

“I was saving both of us –”

“They weren’t thinking that. _You_ weren’t thinking that. And I was just lying there with no say. Watching you die. Watching them let you die. I felt you go limp against me. Heard how weak your heartbeat got.” Achilles paced the limit of his IV. Feeling the sharp tug of the needle, he tore it out. “You comforted me,” he whispered, his eyes red. “You told me I was gonna be okay – as if that wasn’t my worst fucking nightmare. Before they doped me up, my worst fear was _surviving_.” He shuddered. “I still feel like I’m covered in your blood – still smell it and taste it. Fuck, Patroclus.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again.

Achilles stopped his pacing and tugged at his own hair in anguish. “I shouldn’t be mad at you,” he muttered. He took another breath, but nothing calmed him. “You saved me. You’re a _hero_.” Achilles spat the word out like poison. “And you’re laid up hurt. And I’m an asshole, but I’m furious. I’m so angry,” he whispered.

When Patroclus looked up, he saw Achilles’s entire body wracked with sobs – his bulky shoulders shaking, his face scrunched in pain. Patroclus didn’t know if lions could cry. If they could, he supposed it looked something like this.

“Discharge yourself,” Patroclus murmured. “Go find something to kick the shit out of – not a person. Come back when you’ve worn yourself out. I’ll be here.”

Achilles nodded. “You notice Briseis isn’t here?” Patroclus shrugged. “Second I was hurt, they called her, offered millions to get her ASAP. Once you got me stable, they called her off. You were dying, and they _called her off_. Fuckers.”

“Achilles…” Patroclus whispered. “Go, and come back. Alright? I'll be here.”

Achilles nodded once more, and left.

* * *

The third time Patroclus woke, Achilles stood by his bed in nothing but a pair of shorts undoubtedly lent to him by the hospital. He looked as though he had been attacked by a bear.

“Are you – What the fuck, Achilles?” Patroclus managed, leaning up on his elbows. Achilles’s fists were shredded, his arms covered in cuts and scratches.

“You were right – I needed it,” Achilles managed. “I’m sorry.”

“What’d you do?”

“I fought some trees. Won a few times, too.” He flashed a dimmed down version of his usually dazzling smile. “I needed to hit something.”

“You imagine it was me?” Patroclus asked.

All joy evaporated from Achilles’s face, but he was too tired to hide behind rage now. He looked sad. “Never. No – of course not.” He shuddered. The laceration on his side hadn’t been completely healed by Patroclus’s blood, and the doctors’ good work sewing him up was coming undone. “If I’m honest, I went easy on the trees. Wanted to hurt. Not many people around who can kick the shit out of me. Never seemed like a bad thing before.”

“I’m sorry, Achilles,” Patroclus said once again.

“Don’t be.” The tension had left his body. He just looked defeated. “It was a shitty situation. Extenuating circumstances or whatever. I just… I never, ever want you to do that again. Alright? Consider that my DNR.”

Patroclus smiled fondly. “Fucking good luck with that, Pelides. Can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m a hero. We get the glory, we risk our asses. And I _like_ it – I like the risks, the rewards, the adrenalin. If you died for me… Fucking no. No way.” Achilles half stumbled to Patroclus’s bedside. “Promise me.”

“You rather I bleed out trying to save you, or because I couldn’t save you?” Patroclus asked softly, and Achilles flinched.

“No,” he whispered, his voice small and threadbare. “No, you can’t… Patroclus, you can’t.”

Patroclus gave one of his unreadable smiles and sighed. “I know. It’s fucked up and immature. What would you’ve done if I had have bled out?”

Achilles swallowed. “Nothing good.”

“No,” Patroclus agreed. A silence swelled between them – one of stubbornness and exhaustion and sadness and relief – punctuated only by the heart monitor’s defiant beeps. Patroclus wanted to sleep, and Achilles wanted to beat the flesh of a man, and be beat back.

“I had the doctors clean me up,” Achilles surrendered.

“Trees got you good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, well, I asked not to be bandaged up. I get it – if you’re too tired, or if the transfusions aren’t… I dunno, fucking magic yet, or whatever… but I’d like to lie with you. If that’s okay. I showered – I don’t smell like shit.”

Patroclus nodded almost imperceptibly from the bed, and Achilles stripped him out of the hospital gown and carefully laid himself down by Patroclus.

“You scared me,” Achilles said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared before. Hell – I don’t think I’ve ever been scared.” Achilles angled their bodies so he was the big spoon, pressing his wounds carefully against Patroclus’s cool flesh. “This won’t slow down your recovery, will it?”

“Nah,” Patroclus mumbled. “’s long as I don’t do pain relief.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry I was an asshole. You’re sick, and I shouldn’t’ve made it worse.”

“Make it up to me,” Patroclus said suggestively.

“Probably not this second.”

“No. No, probably not _right_ now.”

“Thank you for saving me. It was fucking risky – and you shouldn’t’ve… but you did good. I’m glad we’re together and alive.”

“Heroes take the risks and bathe in glory,” Patroclus said sleepily. “I don’t mind being your hero from time to time.”

Achilles held him too tight, but Patroclus didn’t have the heart to urge him to loosen his grip. “People know what you can do, now. They’ll literally be out for your blood.”

Patroclus laughed, as if it was a joke. In the quiet of their hospital suite, it felt like a far off, unknowable foe – it was impossible to imagine being hurt whilst in a golden cocoon of Achilles. Patroclus craned his neck and pecked Achilles on the side of his mouth. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Achilles shuddered against him. “I’ll be more careful,” he whispered, his voice fragile. “I promise.”

Something died that day. Not Achilles, and not Patroclus – but something to be mourned nonetheless. Patroclus thought of the fearless, pure Achilles he had met at Sky High, ready to take on the world, unphased by danger. That boy had been sacrificed in Heracles Gardens - Patroclus couldn't save him. Later, Patroclus would weep for what had been lost. He would think of the poetic ending he had denied Achilles - a death without fear of death - and grieve his lost boy.

Eventually Achilles's embrace loosened as sleep overtook him - but Patroclus relished the weight of his arm over his ribs, and his breath on his neck, and his heartbeat against his back, and the fact that when Patroclus next would wake, Achilles would be there beside him; human and afraid and his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Your comments brighten my quarantine <3


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